A few weeks ago, I announced to the world through the Telegraph that I am, indeed, a crazy person. No donut-dinted Man of the Indoors trains for the Iron Horse without a fair dose of insanity. Since the ride, everyone from my landlords to my grocery clerk wants to know how it went for the new kid on the Durango block. So if you, too, are wondering, I won’t keep you in suspense:

Yes, I finished.
Yes, I beat the train, mostly because I cheated by starting an hour early.

And yes, I intend to ride the Iron Horse again.

“Isn’t once enough?” the sane among us ask. “You have the sense of accomplishment. You have the T-shirt and the medal. You can gaze into the northern distance and growl, ‘Yeah, I rode over mountains like a beast.’ What more can you gain by doing it again?”

Not to sound hokey, but my biggest reason for participating in psychosis-on-wheels again and again will be the applause. I caught the clap! Wait, that sounds wrong. What I mean is, the Iron Horse was the first time so many people cheered for me, and I reveled in it. You, good folks of Durango and Silverton, of Hermosa and Cascade Village and Rockwood, you were the wind beneath my padded bike shorts. (I suspect plenty of other cyclists feel the same.)

Applause for one’s efforts pretty much always feels good, but how often in life does our cheering section really mean it? At school functions and Little League games, I always had the sense that the entire crowd basically had to be there. These were parents and teachers. What were they going to do, sit in silence? Hiss at poor efforts, as if we were villains in a vaudeville play? (OK, Little League got pretty cutthroat by middle school, and some adults definitely boo’ed. But they didn’t boo their own kids. I don’t think.)

In a normal adulthood, our neighbors don’t whoop and holler when we mow the lawn. No one blasts an airhorn when we clean the kitchen. Sure, we get recognition in the workplace, but that praise can’t help feeling cheesy. Besides, I always figured the acknowledgment of a job well done had an ulterior motive: my bosses wanted me to keep working harder, longer, better, because they made more money that way. They weren’t congratulating me so much as my contribution to their mission statement.

So what do you cowbell-clanging roadside supporters want from me? Did you only cheer because the Iron Horse is such a boon to both Durango and Silverton? I can’t imagine so. I grew up in Albuquerque when the Balloon Fiesta attracted most of the area’s incoming money. Burqueños pulled out camping chairs and sat on the highway’s shoulder at ungodly hours of the morning, too, but we certainly didn’t applaud each balloonist for getting off the ground.

Bicycling events in other cities also provide economic support, yet they don’t gather the support that this town gives the IHBC every year. I’ve yet to ride in other events, but from what I hear, most of them end with two volunteers at the finish line unceremoniously passing you a shirt and a bottle of water. So I suspect your motivation runs deeper than dollars.

For all I can see, you have zero obligation to pull out the camping chairs and dust off the cowbells. Civic duty does not decree that you must line the highway at 7 in the morning. And even if you’re supporting a loved one, this isn’t tee-ball; no one says you have to yell encouragement at every struggling cyclist who pedals through your stretch of pavement.

But you do it anyway. And the fact that most of you are perfect strangers makes the encouragement all the more meaningful.

Do you have any idea how good your lunatic cowbell clanging made me feel? Each personal encouragement hollered at me boosted my legs more than all the Powerade in the world. Whyever you decided to park along 550 and yell your head off, it felt to me like recognition of a ridiculous resolution, seven months of training, and a grueling physical feat. I worked hard for this, dammit, much harder than I ever worked on ground balls or school plays. And you made it all worthwhile.

More than that: you made me want to experience it again. None of us get standing ovations for our everyday responsibilities, so we might as well get it because we hurtled down a mountain on a contraption that weighs less than a golden retriever.

Even more than that: you’ve made me and thousands of other bicyclists, regardless of our street addresses, feel that Durango is home. This place offers so many chances for a guy or gal to be appreciated, regardless of proclivities or talents. (I heard people cheer just as loudly for cross-dressing nerds during Snowdown. Just sayin’ – anyone with some gumption can earn applause around here.)

Let the travel guides say that beer and recreation are the reasons to visit. I know the real reason. You cheer crazy people in the streets. Durango’s attitude is that everyone is a someone. And that’s pretty special.

So go ahead and wave this newspaper in the air. The noise it makes is my applause. Whether you screamed for me in the Iron Horse or simply put up with road closures for the weekend, I appreciate you.

 

– Zach Hively